


The Boiling Waters of Asag

by Merovignian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Agnes Lives, Agnes Statement, Apocalypse Travelogue, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Evil Nonsense, Canon-Typical Violence, Cute Couples in the Apocalypse, Desolation!Jack, F/M, Fire, Jon and Martin's Armageddon Honeymoon, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, The Desolation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24950014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merovignian/pseuds/Merovignian
Summary: On their way to the Panopticon, Jon and Martin take a break.In a coffee shop.
Relationships: Agnes Montague & Ronald Sinclair, Implied Agnes/Gertrude, Implied Agnes/Jude, Jack Barnabas/Agnes Montague, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	The Boiling Waters of Asag

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for nothing.

The shop stands alone.  
  
There is no sign above the door, no lights shining in the windows. There is only the shop, stood in a blasted wasteland where the eyes stare down from above. On the horizon, over many leagues of scoured earth, the outline of what was once a cityscape sags as if melted. A bell jingles as Jon and Martin push through the door.  
  
Inside there is a murmur of quiet conversation, a clinking of cups and a scraping of chairs. An old song plays on a scratchy radio as customers sit at their tables, sipping from cups and picking at cakes and sandwiches. Even without lights or sun, somehow they can still see; it's what the Watcher wants, after all. The windows are wide and gaping in concession to Beholding's dominion, and though at first glance the cafe looks cozy, it soon becomes clear that the tables are uncomfortably exposed, that there is no nook or cranny where one may avoid the prying eyes.  
  
They take their place in the queue. Martin tries to talk to the man in front of them, but gets no response; as the woman at the front of the line takes her order and walks to a table, he notices as she passes that there are tears in her eyes. And as they wait to be served, he begins to notice uncomfortable details.   
  
The cafegoers shake at their tables, weeping as the food and drink sears their mouths. The furniture is scorched and pitted with burn marks, and as Martin watches one man swigs his entire cup of boiling coffee in one motion, then falls twitching from the chair as his throat collapses from the heat.  
  
Then they reach the front of the queue, and Martin recoils at the sight of the thing behind the counter.  
  
Its skull is visible beneath the charred and blackened ruin that was once a face. The fat has run from its cheeks, while one eye droops and threatens to spill outside the socket that peers, bare white and yellow bone, from beneath the obliterated skin. Swathes of hair are gone, either fitfully regrowing from where the scalp was torched or replaced outright with burn scars. Its fingers are almost skeletal themselves, strips of skin hanging from the bones like strings of melted cheese. It's anyone's guess how much of the body remains unburned, if any, for it wears an immaculate server's uniform, incongruously mundane in contrast to its ruined features.  
  
Jon steps up to the counter. "Hello, Jack."  
  
"Hello, Archivist. How may I help you?" 'Jack' has a horrible voice, a pained croaky lisping thing, and he smiles; at least, Martin thinks he does. It's hard to be sure, for his lips are so badly damaged that the teeth are eternally visible in a ghoulish, fire-damaged rictus. And as Martin stares, the pieces fall into place.  
  
"Jack? As in, Jack _Barnabas?_ The - the one who dated Agnes?"  
  
"The very same." Jon murmurs.  
  
"...I thought you had plastic surgery." Martin manages weakly. "We - ah, we talked over email. Martin. Martin Blackwood."  
  
"Martin, yes, I remember! Good to meet you properly." Jack Barnabas responds, "You're right; I did have surgery, but it peeled away when the world changed. My face got worse than ever after that; I might as well not have bothered. And they never were able to fix my lips. Or my tongue." He chuckles. "You were from the Magnus Institute, weren't you, asking all about my statement? I got into some trouble for that, you know. A gentleman should not kiss and tell..." He trails off, suddenly bashful, then adds, "So. What can I get for you?"  
  
"Two cups of tea, please." Jon says, and Jack Barnabas looks briefly disappointed. But he busies himself with making it, and once the drinks are received the pair walk to a table near one of the gaping windows.   
  
"So he runs this place, does he?" Martin says after a time.  
  
"In a manner of speaking. He...manages it."  
  
"He seemed so nice over email."  
  
Jon chuckles bitterly. "You sound almost betrayed. He can't have left that much of an impression, surely?"  
  
"Well, no, but...look, something about that statement got to me, alright? Only interacting with your emotionally closed-off love interest by bringing them hot drinks while you're at work...I could relate, you know?"  
  
Jon laughs genuinely then, a loud and carefree sound that briefly drowns out the weeping and the moans. "Drink your tea, Martin. It's real, or as close as it gets nowadays."  
  
Martin does so hesitantly, then smirks.  
  
"Mine's better."  
  
"It is, yes." Jon smiles, the first proper smile Martin's seen in a while, and continues in a softer voice:  
  
"He's not a bad person, Martin. He tried to get on with his life, after what happened. As best he could. He worked in places where the way he looked wasn't a problem, tried to rebuild his life. Never really dated anyone else. Not surprising, even plastic surgery can only do so much, and the trauma...but even beyond that, whenever he thought about it he couldn't stop picturing Agnes. She saved him, in a sense: If it weren't for her kiss, he'd be suffering with the rest of them. And it's not like they'd be doing any better if he was gone. "  
  
"It's still hard to believe." Martin sighs. "First Callum Brodie becomes an Avatar, now this? Is the whole thing just a cycle of abuse?"  
  
"Like I said, it's complicated in this case."  
  
"What does that _mean_ , Jon?" Annoyance creeps into Martin's voice. "You always say that."  
  
"I mean this is not his realm. He just runs it. The master of this place always liked to delegate."  
  
There are footsteps behind them.  
  
"You're in my place." The voice is low and feminine and accusatory. Its bearer pulls up a chair, places a cup of coffee on the table - large, black, room for milk - and sits.  
  
"Agnes."  
  
The woman with the auburn hair and the eyes like lamplights frowns as she stares at him. "You're not Gertrude."  
  
"No."  
  
Agnes huffs, draws patterns in the wood of the table with her finger and leaves scorchmarks where she touches. "Of course not. She never would have let this happen."  
  
Jon smiles sadly. "Maybe not."  
  
"Um, excuse me?" Martin's voice cuts between them. "Agnes? As in Agnes _Montague?_ You're _dead_. Like, sorry to bring that up, but you're supposed to be _dead_. How is she - are you, sorry, shouldn't talk about people like they aren't there - how are you _here?"_  
  
"You returned to the Desolation, didn't you, Agnes? An anti-climatic death that left your power unspent." The tall, pale woman nods as Jon addresses her.  
  
"I returned to the Flame. Now the Flame has come to Earth, and I came with it." Then, "How did she die?"  
  
"Elias. Jonah. When Gertrude realized the other Rituals were doomed to fail, she turned against his. He was ready."  
  
"He needs to die." Agnes' face contorts, becomes ugly with rage.  
  
"That's the plan."  
  
Agnes does not respond to this pronouncement. Instead she takes her coffee in both hands and breathes in the steam that rises from it, sighing almost dreamily as she does so. The liquid in the cup begins to bubble as Jon and Martin watch, and the steam begins to take on shapes. Faces. Screaming, contorted, sobbing faces appear in the steam, in the bubbles, and Agnes Montague inhales them with an expression that is almost a smile.  
  
Martin's lips curl in horror and realization. "So that's how it works, is it? Jack, he gathers the fear from the customers for Agnes. Like...what was his name? With the candles?"  
  
"Eugene." Jon murmurs.  
  
"Hardly," Agnes responds, eyes closed as she continues to breathe in the wailing steam. The sounds of screaming can almost be heard, the voices of the damned hovering at the edge of perception. "This is much nicer than what Eugene did. You can tell it's made with love."   
  
"What happened to you, Agnes?" There's disappointment in Jon's tone. "I thought you doubted. That you didn't want this."  
  
"I didn't and I don't. Or I did, but I thought I shouldn't, or I didn't and thought I should, or...I don't know." Agnes laughs, an empty, tired thing. "My upbringing was not conducive to critical thought and self-reflection." She seems reluctant to speak but unable to resist. "But I didn't choose this. _You're_ the reason this happened."  
  
"That's not fair." Martin cuts in.  
  
"Didn't say it was his fault. Just said he was the reason. I doubt you two had any more choice than I did." She puts the coffee down. "But I always fed on others. I may not have hurt them myself, or realized at first what my actions meant or why I should care, but I did it nonetheless. Just like you did, Archivist. Just as you do now. I have already died once, and I can live no other way. So I might as well keep doing it.  
  
"Did you know I saved a boy?"  
  
"Ronald Sinclair." Jon replies. "On Hilltop Road."  
  
"Yes. What happened to him?"  
  
"He lived a long, full life." Jon says, then his eyes flicker. "He died peacefully, sometime before the change."  
  
"That's good. He was a nice lad. I had quite the crush on him, looking back. Didn't know what it was at the time, of course. Don't look so jealous, dear, it was years ago!" She raises her voice, a look of wry fondness on her face, and the sound of a cup smashing can be heard as Jack Barnabas jumps, surprised at being noticed eavesdropping. Agnes continues.  
  
"The house was being used by the Web, to make those horrid husks. I let them do it, time after time, before finally I decided to intervene. Pity, spite, I don't know the reason. That's just how I lived. You know, I still have no idea why Arthur and the rest thought it was a good idea to send me there in the first place? Idiots. Still, now I know things would have failed anyway, so at least with the way things shook out I got to live a bit. Burn some spiders. See a Grifter's Bone gig. Get coffee.   
  
"And I met people here and there who were ready to hear our message, inducted them into my church. I Saved them. The base world of man was doomed to end, but at least a few of my Chosen would live on happily in the World to Come. Jude. A few others. And Jack of course, though I didn't realize at the time. I have had few choices in life, but I have done what I can."  
  
Now Martin speaks. "Why aren't you with the others? In those...burning apartments?"  
  
Agnes snorts. "I spent my whole life tied to them, and I'm sick of it. I failed in my destiny, my purpose was a sham, and everything they tried to make of me failed. The world ended anyway, through no action of ours, and I don't even want it. I sometimes wish I had never been chosen at all, though I don't know what another life would have looked like, and this is the closest I can get. They don't even know I'm here, and I don't want them to. They can do what they want. I will sit here, and I will drink my coffee, and at last I can do as I please."  
  
Jon nods. "I see." Then he twitches, runs his tongue along the inside of his lips. "Your coffee."  
  
"Go on, Archivist."  
  
Martin makes himself scarce, and Jon begins to speak.  
  
_" **Asag's Roast** , our most accomplished blend. Named for the demonic antagonist of a Mesopotamian myth known as the Lugal-e, in whose anointed boiling waters the Incarnation of the Lightless Flame was baptized. This blend is a labour of love and much experimentation has gone into its creation, utilizing the finest crop of loss and agony from locally sourced harvests in what was once the city of Sheffield, with an important pinch of affection and yearning to contrast and draw out the deepest notes of flavour from the pain. Our aim was to create a blend which embraces the principles of lost opportunities and broken dreams, balancing the most piquant and characterful tastes of despair with a robust and nourishing base of overwhelming physical pain._  
  
_" **Roast Level:** Lightlessly dark._  
_" **Grind Setting:** Agonizingly coarse._  
_" **Brew Time:** A subjective eternity._  
_" **Flavour Notes:** Burnt hate, bitter fear, broken hearts, milk chocolate._  
  
_" **Details:** Asag's Roast is a coffee that requires careful preparation to reach its full potential, but will reward the patient user with a matchless flavour experience. Despite the darkness of the roast, the genius of this blend is that it allows the origin character of the component fears to be clearly determined, in balance with the flavours produced by the roasting process._  
  
_" **50% Burn Trauma:** A classic source of fear with intense notes of physical loss and roasting agony. Full bodied with a warming mouthfeel, this is a staple source of dread harvested from booming sites involving industrial accidents, arson attempts and house fires. Strong acidity._  
  
_**"20% Lost Potential:** We are very excited about this more metaphorical source of fear, sourced from dreams and desires which have been cut short by outside influences. Reflecting our commitment to supporting small-scale producers, this fear is derived from the individual circumstances of a person's life, rather than interchangable physical traumas. Each artisanly produced batch is unique, whilst sharing a rich, velvety mouthfeel and bursting with despair over lost opportunities and existential angst._  
  
_" **20% Imminent Dread:** A challenging origin to work with, its unique character lends a trapped, panicky flavour to the blend. There are deep notes of the knowledge that one's poor decisions have lead to inescapable torment, of the moment of realisation before pain sets in, and of regret felt too late to be useful. We have been working with this fear for many years thanks to the clean, innovative despair it produces._  
  
_" **10% Desolate Longing:** This creamy, effervescent coffee has a heavy mouthfeel, often compared to crushing loneliness. What separates it from the One Alone is its base in concrete loss; rather than the emptiness itself, the pain comes from the sharp agony of having been deprived of a previous happiness or wellbeing. The eternal hope that such good fortune may be restored imparts a sweet, powdery character to the brew, a contrast which highlights the loss and scarring of the other elements in the blend._  
  
_"Asag's Roast was devised by our head brewer and top barista, who has dedicated the blend to his girlfriend of an unknown length of time (since the remaking of the world in the image of the Ceaseless Watcher has rendered such concepts meaningless)."_  
  
And Jon breathes out. Agnes' mug is empty now.  
  
"Satisfied, Archivist?"  
  
"Not quite. But then, coffee was never my drink of choice."  
  
A smug _hah!_ can be heard from where Martin lurks in the distance, whilst Jack mutters something as he cleans tables on the other side of the cafe. Jon breathes in deeply and starts to speak again.  
  
_"Of course, there's more to life than work, even if it's a job you love. Did you know that Sheffield was considered the greenest city in Europe? Sixty-one percent of it was green space, with more than two hundred and fifty parks, woodlands and gardens existing in the city, and fully a third of Sheffield's limits lay within the bounds of the Peak District national park. That was the reason Agnes Montague chose to live there. She did not tell the Cult of the Lightless Flame why she chose the city, but they obeyed nonetheless; being the Chosen One has its perks."_  
  
Agnes looks a little embarrassed at that.  
  
_"But they did notice how she liked the green places. They believed she saw them as they would be in the world to come, that she envisaged their beauty marred and despoiled, and perhaps this was true, to a point. But Agnes also loved the parks and trees for the sake of their beauty alone, much as she loved the animals she could not pet without burning. Perhaps in another life she could have been a gardener, an animal biologist, a botanist._  
  
_"Jack Barnabas was not quite so enamoured, but he always appreciated the green places in his own way. It made the gray concrete and the bustle of the city bearable in a way other cities were not, made it feel less Lonely._  
  
_"And still they go walking, traveling through the city that was once Sheffield. Through Bole Hill Park when they're feeling nostalgic, where they had walked together a world ago. Through the Peace Gardens, where the sagging, melted edifice that was once the town hall lies oozing. The Slaughter has a place here, in this garden built between the Wars, but they ignore the outbreaks of violence and pain that erupt upon the blood-soaked grass. Through the Botanical Gardens, to admire the Bone Roses imported from another Power's domain, pruned here not through Boneturning but with fire. Flesh and Desolation had always gotten along._  
  
_"In the Winter Gardens, what was once a glasshouse creaks and groans ominously, its panels rimed with a bitter frost. Ice and cold may disfigure the flesh and cryoburns are harsh as fire, whilst deprivation and isolation will bring withering and regret as surely as any flame. In the Winter Gardens another Avatar lurks, one who served the Desolation unwittingly with acid and hunger and cold, and Agnes allows their frostbitten empire to flourish in her domain out of contrariness towards her former Cult._  
  
_"Before the end came there were four million, six hundred and thirteen thousand, eight hundred and twenty-two trees within the city of Sheffield. Many of them remain, scoured of leaves as if by the harshest winter. Agnes and Jack walk through Ecclesall woods, the irises of the Watcher's countless eyes showing here and there through the skeletal branches. Some of the trees have become spiderlike and malevolent in a way that reminds Agnes of the tree on Hilltop Road. She sulks, but cannot remove the influence of the Web from her domain any more than she could remove it from her nature. When she is upset, Jack strokes her hair with fingers melted and charred from holding hands. When she cheers up, she climbs trees as she did as a child, before her flame grew too hot to touch them without explosions._  
  
_"They have even traveled beyond Sheffield-that-was to the outskirts of Scunthorpe, a mere few dozen miles away back when such things had meaning. There is a foundry there, once a factory for producing steel and the hellish candles on which Agnes once was fed. Now it is a domain, one which would have belonged to Eugene Vanderstock were he in any condition to claim it. But that was not what they had come to see. Normany Hall is there, and it was designed by Robert Smirke. The new world has had strange interactions with the man's architecture, and it makes for a most singular visit._  
  
_"But of course the happy couple do not constrain themselves to walks. They go to restaurants, to other cafes to sit and spend time together. They dine on the Flesh of animals which knew they were bound for the table, they dine on game which was felled in the Hunt, and in both cases the fear it salts the meat. They drink wine brewed in a sick village, its hues the livid red of an open wound. Fermentation is Corruption in its fashion, after all. The wine is thick as treacle and rich with the sweetness of exquisitely controlled decay. As they dine together in the low candlelight, they are serenaded by the screams of those inside the restaurants, who are trapped within the fires and cannot get out._  
  
_"Sometimes they go to the cinema, too. There was a war movie on, the last time. They saw the Enemy, dark and tusked or shriveled and ratlike, dying by the thousand to guns and bombs and tanks and drones and shells and gas and more, saw the many-armed doctors hacking the injured into new and terrible shapes. The time before that, it was a children's movie of monsters in the Dark._  
  
_"And at the end of each date Jack escorts Agnes home, and outside the door to her scorched and empty flat, she kisses him goodnight. It's still just as good as the first time; the pain glorious, overwhelming and exquisite. They part smiling, Agnes' heart fluttering at the chance to connect to another being so. Jack is just as besotted, and he can't not smile with his lips blown away."_  
  
Jon is starting to look uncomfortable, now.  
  
_"Of course, kissing is just the beginning. On some nights Agnes invites her love inside, after dates that have been particularly lovely, when she sees with pride the burning desire in his half-melted eyes, and when the siren-song of agony and ecstasy is more than she can contain. Do you know what searing heat can do to bare flesh? What joys the-"_  
  
"That is quite enough, thank you." Agnes' voice is sharp, and Jon falls silent. The Avatar of the Desolation looks embarrassed, the fair skin of her cheeks flushed a deep red. "Surely the Eye has been voyeur enough for one meal."  
  
Jon nods quickly, his awkwardness clear. "Yes, I, ah, I think we've covered everything I'm interested in. Sorry."  
  
He finishes his tea; it hasn't gone cold, for nothing served here is ever less than scalding. The sheer monstrosity of what he has witnessed fills him with a sick, guilty pleasure. There is no question of smiting the pair; Jon knows, as does Agnes, that the people here would do no better with them gone. At least Agnes saved one person.

Jon stands and looks for Martin. He sees him talking to Jack Barnabas in a corner, where they look for all the world like they're collectively gushing over their partners. Jon waves him over.  
  
"Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Montague." The Archivist speaks politely. "We should be going soon."  
  
"You're welcome. Good luck." Agnes seems to be closing in on herself, as if too much talking has taken its toll. Perhaps it has; she was always quiet, in life. Martin follows behind Jon as they head to the entrance, packing something that looks suspiciously like teabags into his coat.  
  
"I nearly forgot." Agnes' voice stops them in their tracks. "You said you'd visited the others." She wears a look which might be nostalgia or might be affection as she asks:  
  
"How is Jude?"


End file.
